


Provocation

by storylinecontinuum



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Historical Hetalia, M/M, mild violence, of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:07:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26339233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storylinecontinuum/pseuds/storylinecontinuum
Summary: A moment of silence followed in which England looked like he was appraising him and then he spoke again, staring straight into Alfred’s eyes.“Or what?”The voice of a man who had said it a million times before.But Alfred was at the end of his tether and patience had flown out the window ages ago.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 61





	Provocation

**Author's Note:**

> I've always been interested in these two's dynamic shortly after the Revolutionary war and this is an attempt at exploring that. Takes place sometime after Alfred's independence but before the Jay Treaty.  
>   
> USUK if you squint though I definitely had it in mind when writing this.

Alfred walked briskly down the dirt path that led to Fort Mifflin.

It was a clear morning and a stunning river glittered just below the horizon to his left but he had no mind for either of them. A problem was waiting for him down in the fort’s prison hold and he could feel the anticipation making all of his muscles taut.

Three days ago a report had come in that a British ship had entered Delaware Bay and brazenly opened fire on a fleeing merchant vessel. What was worse was that after the hostile brig had been disabled, one of the prisoners taken ashore had proved to be a far bigger issue than the coast guard could handle. An issue that they had neither the rank nor diplomatic authority to deal with.

Alfred had paled several times while he read the document – he knew _exactly_ what they were dealing with – and he’d been up on horseback before the Department of States had so much as heard a word of the report.

And even with that kind of haste, he still hadn’t been fast enough.

According to the commandant that met him at the gate, by the time Alfred had gotten there their prisoner had managed to dump his water rations on three different officers, stolen the ammunition of half the guards, started two fights and gotten himself into solitary confinement for it.

Honestly, Alfred thought pinching the bridge of his nose, one had to wonder how one man could stir that much trouble all by himself.

Yet as much as he wanted to maintain that affronted attitude, there was no denying his anxiety as he was admitted into the fort and led to one of its squat buildings, where the staff had finally been persuaded to feed their captive after two days of penal starvation. (An achievement in itself – he must have been driving them up the wall to earn that punishment.)

He didn’t have much time to dwell on it though. Before long they were turning the corner of one of the structures near the edge of the wall and just like that, there he was.

England. In all his… glory.

Alfred hesitated as he stopped to stare at the man in front of him.

Sat at a rickety table pushed against the wall and clad in just a shirt and breeches, he was scarfing down what looked like broth and tearing pieces of bread from a small loaf. His head bobbed with each motion and his skin looked dusty, covered in a thin layer of prison grime.

A little ways behind him, a group of guards were eyeing him with open apprehension but he didn’t seem bothered by it at all. All of his attention was focused on the food in the most dismissive way possible. There was nothing casual about it, Alfred decided. England knew all eyes were on him, heck he had probably sensed Alfred coming from miles away.

But it was only when Alfred stepped closer to the table, separating himself from his escorts, that two green eyes snapped up to meet him and glared from where England was protectively bent over his bowl.

“What, a man can’t eat his fill these days?” He sneered.

Alfred kept his gaze on him for a moment, lips pressed into a thin line. The rancid smell of deadlock was thick in the air. Then Alfred sighed, his shoulders sagging with it, and ran a hand through his hair, feeling the perspiration there as it clung to his palm.

“I’m not taking your food away from you.” He said and as if to prove his point, pulled out the chair opposite England.

The latter didn’t wait for him to sit down to dig back into his meal, the noise of the spoon scraping against the bowl loud in the quickly warming morning. He didn’t even bother to take his elbows off the table.

Alfred watched him for a while longer, steeling himself for what was to come next.

“What were you doing in my waters?”

As an instant reaction to _my_ , England’s fingers clenched around a piece of bread and almost crushed it to nonexistence. His face remained neutral however, save for the smirk that played on his lips as he leaned over the table.

“Chasing smugglers.” He said matter-of-factly, clearly expecting to get a rise from America.

“On whose authority?” Alfred barely managed not to growl.

“Mine.” England grinned and slumped back in his chair, causing it to scrape against the rough stone.

The picture of self-assured nonchalance. He might as well have had a feather sticking out of his mouth and a tail swishing behind his back.

Something inside of Alfred snapped then. It wasn’t a violent change. But it was the crumbling of the first of many supports he’d built to carry him through this conversation and he could feel the difference in his equilibrium now that it was gone.

He was slipping off his carefully constructed ledge of neutrality and Arthur was dragging him down by the coattails.

“Look,” he implored “you know I can’t stop my men from firing at you if you do something like that.”

England’s mouth pinched into a frown and his posture shifted to one of disdain.

“Well, they sure didn’t hold back.”

“It’s a waste of men! Don’t you feel bad for all the-“

“Don’t you dare tell me what to do with my men!”

The clatter of tableware was deafening as England’s fist met the tabletop, a stunned silence taking over as everyone froze and turned to stare at him.

The outburst had rendered Alfred paralyzed as well and he could only count his own breaths, held hostage by England’s burning lime green eyes that refused to move away. England still held power over him.

He held power over the whole courtyard in fact, and over every room he ever walked into because he could express his rage so freely, so unequivocally that the whole world felt obliged to listen.

Alfred let out the breath he’d been holding; his fifth one.

“Fine then.” He snapped and got to his feet.

England’s spells were rare and violent but they were short lived. His commanding presence was already evaporating from every grain of sand it had imbued, leaving behind nothing but an angry man with broth trickling down his fingers.

“I’m leaving it to your government to figure out how to get you out of here.” Alfred’s hands joined behind his back. “It’s their problem now. Until then you’re a prisoner at my fort.”

He turned in a way that he hoped didn’t make it look like he was fleeing – if anything, he wanted it to look dismissive – and was glad when he felt his soldiers fall in line behind him. As if they could shield him from the force of nature they were all trying to contain in shackles.

But England wasn’t done yet. It was the sound of a chair hitting the floor this time and then his voice was ringing, clear and angry, across the sweltering courtyard.

“As if anyone in this cursed land was ever free from your ambition!” He yelled and Alfred couldn’t take it anymore. His second to last support was gone (or maybe it was his last one?) and in a flash he was crossing the distance between them, stopping close enough to shove himself into England’s face and breathe down his nose.

“Stop it!” He hissed. “Stop acting like you’re some kind of _hooligan._ It’s not like you.”

His fist was clenched around a portion of England’s shirt. Holding him back or holding himself back, he didn’t know.

A moment of silence followed in which England looked like he was appraising him and then he spoke again, staring straight into Alfred’s eyes.

“Or _what_?”

The voice of a man who had said it a million times before.

But Alfred was at the end of his tether and patience had flown out the window ages ago.

His hand moved of its own volition, giddy with the spiteful thought of what he was about to do next. It closed around the wooden bowl that still held half of England’s dinner and he pulled it beside him, hovering next to the space between their bodies, and slowly let his wrist turn until the wet splash of its contents sounded against the ground.

“Or that.”

It was a threat. A declaration. And Alfred would have congratulated himself for it if it weren’t for the knee that buried itself in his stomach a moment later.

Every ounce of thought was expelled from his brain as he doubled over on the ground, gasping like a fish out of water.

“You think I’ve only just started acting like a hooligan? Huh?! Well think again, _brat_. You know nothing about me.”

Alfred felt a shiver go down his spine.

Eventually, England yielded to the wall of muskets pushing him back toward the table. Alfred had to scrape himself off the ground and then suffer the humiliation of one of his officers giving the order to take England away because he couldn’t find the breath to do it himself.

England had gone without a fuss after that, just once causing a stir as he shrugged himself free from the hand a guard put on his shoulder.

Inside Alfred however it was a turmoil of emotions.

How was it that he had let himself be riled up so easily? How was it that he had won a war and England still managed to make him feel like he’d walked away a loser from it?

… No.

This was what it meant to be treated as an equal by England. This was the side of England that everyone saw and nobody wanted to piss off. Alfred had just spent too long thinking of his guardian in a certain way that seeing him in a new light was a hard pill to swallow.

But he had gotten what he always wanted, he thought as he walked back out through the gate and toward the weary horses waiting for them on the dirt road.

He had brought down the wall and seen what lay on the other side.

Now he just had to learn to love it as much as everything else.


End file.
